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Memory is the seamstress, and a capricious one at that. Memory runs her needle in and out, up and down, hither and thither. We know not what comes next, or what follows after. Thus, the most ordinary movement in the world, such as sitting down at a table and pulling the inkstand towards one, may agitate a thousand odd, disconnected fragments, now bright, now dim, hanging and bobbing and dipping and flaunting, like the underlinen of a family of fourteen on a line in a gale of wind. Instead of being a single, downright, bluff piece of work of which no man need feel ashamed, our commonest deeds are set about with a fluttering and flickering of wings, a rising and falling of lights.-virginia woolf
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hey wanna hang out tomorrow. hey what are you doing later today do you wanna hang out. hey i miss you we should hang out some time. are you free this weekend? we can plan a hang out or something if you are. hey could i come over to your place later today and hang out? do you want me to come to your uni so we can hang out? hey, where is your job by the way? i can come over there and we can hang out whenever you get off work. does anyone wanna hang out later toda-
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i have too much faith in my future self to know the right answers just based off of vibes. like. if god wants me to succeed then he will bestow upon me the knowledge to fill the paper. Something something
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'I wont correct myself i would rather kms,Sir nibblesworth' daily reminder 4 hours of sleep aint enough folks
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Gonna be honest(i can lie) here for a second both romanticization and anger are ways of prolonging the grief because your brain is trying to delay the inevitable conclusion that "a good thing was once here and it no longer is and there is nothing you can do about that".
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Repost from Polkadot
when life gets impossibly difficult, we play dead. Not just metaphorically, mind you. I'm talking full-on, Oscar-worthy performance art. We cease all activity, adopt a vacant stare, and maybe even develop a slight rigor mortis-like stiffness. The goal? To convince life – that capricious, often cruel mistress – that we're no longer worth bothering with.
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well everything i did and said was incredibly performative but dammit if i wasn't good at performing
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grief is a privilege afforded by being young and having lots of free time. now you're older and you still have a lot of free time but it doesn't feel like free time. it's just "i should be working right now" time
